We'll Make the World Ours
by DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: Once hitchhikers Clint and Bucky decide to travel together, it's only after a near-kidnapping, a helping hand from a crazy Canadian, painful flashbacks, being arrested and a shocking revelation that things start to get tough. (Modern, No Powers AU. More characters coming.)
1. A Helping Hand

**AN:** I AM BACK!

Yes, after a painfully long and totally unintended hiatus, I bring you this monstrosity that I was challenged to write over on Tumblr. Tags are sparse at the moment because I want to keep things a surprise (unless, of course, you're reading this in the future and there are quite a lot of tags that may or may not be spoilers), but rest assured I do intend to finish this, and I will update those tags (and possibly past chapters) as we go along. There are certainly more characters involved than just Clint and Bucky ;-)

So, that said, I will shut up and let you get reading! Hope you enjoy it ^_^

* * *

We'll Make the World Ours

 **1\. A Helping Hand**

"Hey. Hey, wake up."

Something heavy slapped Clint's shoulder, waking him up with a jerk. He sat upright, felt an ache bloom along the side of his neck and a tightness down his back, and after blinking the sleep away he remembered that he was in a car. A really uncomfortable one.

"End of the line, man," a gruff voice said to his left as he groaned and stretched. "I ain't goin' no further."

"Right," Clint mumbled as the car's owner got out. Pushing his brain into gear he followed suit, squinting as he stepped out into the cold, back-end-of-winter air. Stretching again, he fiddled with his hearing aids and asked, "You want any money for fuel?"

"Naw, I won't be needin' none for a while."

He only said "You sure?" to be polite, but the guy waved him off and disappeared inside the motel. Breathing out a sigh of relief, he dug around in his coat pocket for the now tiny wad of cash, thinking when he pulled it out that his relief was slightly premature – it would be dark soon, and he needed a place to stay, and with just forty dollars he wasn't totally sure a hotel would take him in. Especially considering the fact that he was, to put it nicely, shabbily dressed. He probably smelt too. A shower would be nice. And coffee.

"Your own fault, dummy," he muttered, shouldering his bag and looking over the motel. Motels were inexpensive, right? They didn't care if you looked like you'd fallen out of a tree, either. At least, he hoped so. What was important was that they accepted his money and gave him a roof over his head – he'd had enough of sleeping out in the cold, and no way in hell was he sleeping in a tree again (he was convinced he still had splinters in his tender parts).

The motel was a little grimy inside, though Clint took that as a good sign. If he wasn't going to leave more dirt than was already there, they couldn't hold his grubbiness against him. It could also mean the place was cheap. Fleetingly, he worried that the guy who drove him here would think Clint was stalking him, but then someone was asking "Can I help you?" and his attention was pulled to the lady behind the desk.

"Uh, yeah, hi – I need a room?"

"Okay." She turned to a computer, asking him the regular questions – just him? Yes. How many nights? Only one. Would he like the single room with en-suite shower and toilet? Of course he would. She went to get the key, tapping a few more things on the old desktop machine, and right as Clint began daydreaming about the bed and being able to sleep comfortably and warmly she said, "That'll be sixty dollars."

Clint stared at her. "Sixty?"

"Yes. That includes your parking fee, too."

"I don't have a car."

"Oh." She made a few more taps. "Then it's fifty dollars."

His jaw dropped. "Fifty?"

"Yes, sir, fifty dollars."

As the vision of the bed dissipated, Clint held up his little stack of ten dollar bills and said, "Uh, look, this is all I got. It's not fifty, but –"

"I'm sorry sir, I can't accept less than fifty dollars."

"Really?" He put on his best imploring look, and the desk clerk shifted uncomfortably.

"Really. Our new manager recently introduced some new rules, and I'm afraid we can no longer help people in… your situation."

"My – oh." Dropping his hand, Clint sighed, stuffing his money back into his pocket. At least he could buy some food. "Uh, you wouldn't know anywhere that might be able to help, would you?"

She gave him directions to another hotel, but was unable to tell him what they might charge. He left feeling disheartened, following her suggestion with reluctant optimism. Misplaced optimism, as it turned out, when the desk clerk of the next hotel gave him the same spiel and forwarded him on to yet another establishment. After the fourth time it happened, Clint was starting to assess bus stops as potential sleeping places. Not ideal, but all things considered, he'd had worse.

Somehow, he ended up following the road to a bus terminal. He stood outside the entrance, watching the buses turn into and out of the stations behind the building, and wondered how far he could go for forty dollars – or if it was better to stay here and still have money for food, using the terminal as a sleeping spot and finding someone bold enough to give him a lift to wherever next. He never reached a decision though, his thoughts interrupted by a voice saying, "You won't get lucky here."

Clint spun around, staring at the scruffily-dressed man stood a few feet away. "What?"

"You're looking for a place to sleep, right?" The stranger gestured to the bus terminal and shook his head. "Don't bother looking here. They can spot guys like us a mile away, and won't let you hang around unless you have a ticket. Or money for one."

"Right…" Scanning the doors, he noticed that there were indeed security guards looking directly at them. "Great," he muttered. "Uh, thanks for the heads-up, I guess." Even if it did put him back at square one.

"Not a problem," the guy said, and Clint was fully expecting him to turn around and walk away, not ask: "So are you still looking?"

"Yeah," he said. "All the hotels I checked out were above my budget."

"Which is?"

He hesitated. "Forty dollars."

Nodding slowly, a thoughtful expression appeared on the stranger's face, and Clint suddenly regretted telling him. What if he wanted to mug Clint now? Lead him somewhere quiet and beat him up, take his money and his clothes? "How about this," he said, and Clint gulped. "I have a hundred and twenty myself. I was gonna use it to get myself a room for a couple of nights, but maybe it'd be better spent on both of us staying dry tonight. Then we can use some of your forty to get dinner. What do you say?"

Clint couldn't help it – he gawped. "Seriously?"

The not-a-mugger grinned. "Seriously."

"Uh – I mean, yes! Please. That is, if you don't mind? Hundred and twenty's a lot, you might need it for something…"

"Not today," the guy said, shaking his head.

"Right. Um. Thanks, then. Really. None of those bus stops looked particularly alluring, and I'm through with trees."

He laughed. "Good thing I found you, I guess." Gesturing out to the street, he continued, "So, you said you'd been to a few hotels. See enough of any to suggest one?"

Clint snorted. "At this rate, I'll take the first one we come to, rats and all. Not that it had rats, I don't think. At least, I didn't see any?" Wow.

Luckily, his new saviour just chuckled and started to walk. "What's your name?" he asked as Clint caught up.

"Clint."

"Just Clint?"

"Clint Francis," he said, not idiotic enough to divulge his real name to a stranger. "And you?"

The guy paused mid-step. It was a fleeting hesitation, as was the odd expression on his face, but given their shared situation Clint was fine with letting both oddities go as a 'someone finally cares enough to ask' moment. "Bucky," the man said, quickly adding "Just Bucky."

Twisting as they walked, Clint held out a hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Just Bucky."

Bucky gave him another weird look, but huffed and took the hand warmly, smiling once more. "Right back at you, Clint Francis."

* * *

The hotel room was considerably less fancy than the front lobby, and for one-hundred and ten dollars, Clint was feeling fairly ripped-off. Still, it was as he'd told Bucky: a roof was a roof and a bed (even one of questionable quality) was a bed, and it was enough to know that he would be warm that night.

"Wow. Has it been that long?" his new roommate said when Clint let out a groan at the feel of a real, almost-soft, oddly-springy surface beneath his back.

"Oh yeah," he grunted. He opened his eyes, tipping his head to see Bucky shrugging his coat off. Looking around on the floor, he was surprised to notice for the first time that the clothes he was wearing were all the guy appeared to own. "Don't you have a bag or something?"

Bucky shook his head. "Travelling light," he said, not sounding convinced by his own words. He glanced at his wrist, grimacing before asking Clint if he had the time. "Thought I had a watch."

"What, there's no clock in here?" There was one on the bedside table, but the display was completely blank, and not even Clint's usual tactic of 'hit it until it does something' could make it spark into life.

"I doubt you whacking it like that helped," Bucky said, smirking.

"Works at home, I swear."

"Home?"

He swallowed. "Used to." Dropping the alarm clock on the table, Clint rolled onto his back, wincing as something jabbed his shoulder blade. "Maybe there's one in the lobby? I mean, you'll have to go look, 'cause I –"

" _– about to find out if Julio is, or is not, your brother Delilah._ "

Clint lifted his head, and promptly rolled his eyes. "Jerry Springer? Really?"

"We can use the television shows to tell the time," Bucky said, gesturing at the screen with the remote. He settled onto his bed as Clint mumbled complaints under his breath. "What's Jerry Springer, anyway?"

"Are you kidding me?" Clint propped himself up, giving Bucky an incredulous look. "You've never seen an episode of Jerry Springer?"

His incredulity was met with total nonplus, and Bucky said, "I don't think so?"

"Then you're a lucky sod," Clint declared. "Now change the channel before I start giving a damn."

He heard the remote clicking in Bucky's hand. "Uh, no can do."

"There have to be buttons on the box."

"I don't see any."

Groaning, Clint announced he was going to sleep. It was a small mercy that the volume controls still worked.

* * *

He was being chased down a road. It was dusty and long, and his suit was beginning to cling to him, but his father's henchmen were still on his heels, two bulky shapes he caught glimpses of over his shoulder every now and again. His heart raced, each breath scorching his lungs, muscles sore to the bone, but still he ran, still he sought to put distance between himself and Duquesne and Chisholm. Sometimes when he looked, their shapes were further back, jaws widening as they yelled soundlessly at him; then he would turn again and one of them would be within reaching distance, blunt, dirt-stained fingernails clawing the air where –

With a sharp intake of breath, Clint woke up. Heart racing, he confirmed that the only thing behind him was a mattress, that he wasn't attired in a suit and tie, and that the only other person anywhere near him was the guy he met at the bus station, who was…

"You okay?"

"Uh…"

Clint had been warned about handsome strangers in the past, his friends joking that he'd one day be whisked away by one and never heard from again ("You do the 'kicked puppy' look too well," Jess had said. "They'd never leave you alone." But she could, apparently). He'd never considered it a possibility, but now, staring at his wet-haired, towel-clad, damp-skinned, nicely toned roommate, Clint was beginning to wonder if that was exactly what was happening to him.

"I'm the guy you met at the bus station," the guy he met at the bus station said. "Bucky."

He had an extraordinary tattoo on his left arm and shoulder, gradients of silver and grey segmented to look like a robotic arm, the design fading out as it reached his wrist – "Bucky. Yeah, yeah I'm… fine." Well, his ears hurt, but that was his own fault for sleeping with them in again.

Bucky nodded slowly. As he passed the TV, he rapped his knuckles against the screen. "The evening news is due to start after this show. They'll announce the time then, won't they?"

"Yeah. I think." Clint watched the screen with determination as Bucky changed back into his clothes. He was debating whether or not to ask about the tattoo. The only time he'd ever seen something so bold was when his father had been talking to a pair of Russians with prison tattoos on their hands, stark black designs that Barney told him were likely all over their bodies. He'd tried to avoid Russians since then.

"Shower's shit, by the way," Bucky said, and dropped onto his bed. "I could only get it lukewarm, so sorry if it stays cold when you go."

He sighed. "Beggars can't be choosers, huh?" There was a hum of agreement, then they both quieted to watch the end of the documentary, which appeared to have been about black holes. The final image of Earth being sucked into one didn't fill Clint with much joy, and he silently prayed that whatever channel they were on had some redeeming features. Maybe the evening movie would be a rom-com? He could hope.

The news was as joyous as the Earth's galactic demise, and just as easy to follow: from what Clint gathered, there was another terrorist group somewhere causing chaos, President Rogers was giving another press conference in the wake of more blatant racism, and gang violence was on the increase in one state or city. When the next item came up, Clint was half expecting it to be about a killer disease laying waste to the deep south, but it was about the royal family instead – at which point Bucky promptly announced he was going for food, disappearing before Clint could even ask him what he was getting.

"There better be no fucking pickles," he muttered, focusing back on the news. It was as enthralling as it had been for the past twenty minutes, with the attention now on the American Royal Family.

" _People have been questioning the whereabouts of the Prince for some time now,_ " the anchor was saying over a picture of King George and his wife waving to an adoring crowd, " _although a spokesperson for the family tells us that he is 'attending more private matters' of late, and as a result, has little time to –_ "

"Who cares," Clint moaned. "Why won't you let me change the channel?"

" _But just what, exactly, are these 'private matters' –_ "

"Fucking private, that's what." It was probably the only thing he was grateful to his father for, keeping him and Barney out of the limelight. He was good at it, too, and Clint saw himself once more looking at the will in his hands, the company's darkest secrets laid out in ink, with Barney's name at the top of the document. He shuddered. "Assholes."

Renewing his interest in the television, he lost track of time until Bucky reappeared, the sound of the door opening making Clint jump. "What?" Bucky asked once the door was shut behind him.

Clint closed his jaw. "Nothing. Just…" He was, honestly, mildly surprised that Bucky had come back. "You didn't get anything with pickles, did you?"

Bucky dumped the plastic bags on his bed. "Nah. Found a Taco Bell."

"Did you buy alcohol too?"

"Why would I waste food money on alcohol?"

"Point taken," Clint admitted, and pulled out what could only be described as a grease taco. "Beggars can't be choosers, beggars can't be choosers, beggars can't be choosers…" He took a bite, and the word that came to mind was 'ew'. He missed In 'N Out burgers.

They ate without speaking for a few minutes, watching advert after advert until Bucky must have gotten bored enough to ask "So what's your story?" and Clint promptly froze.

"Story?"

"Yeah. Y'know, where are you trying to go and stuff." At Clint's hesitation, he added, "If it's kind of personal, you don't have to say."

Swallowing his last bite of taco, Clint ran through a list of what he could tell Bucky and what he couldn't. "Just heading anywhere," he said eventually. "There are some people up North that I'd rather stay away from, so the farther the better I guess."

Bucky nodded. "Whereabouts up north?"

Could he tell him? It probably wouldn't be too revealing… "Washington DC."

"Oh. I think I'm from there."

"You 'think'?" Clint looked at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Folding the napkin that had come with the food up carefully, Bucky quietly said, "I… I don't know who I am. I mean, I know myself," he amended quickly, "and I know who my family are, but other than that, my memory's blank."

"Seriously?"

He waved a hand around his head. "There's only a couple of bits and pieces still in there, and none of them are clear enough to make any sense out of. Kind of like, if someone showed you a five-second clip of a video, one that was really blurry or pixelated, and you had no idea what it was even supposed to be about." Dropping the napkin, he buried both of his hands into his hair, sighing through his nose. "I don't even know how it happened."

"Huh." Unsure of what to say, Clint asked, "So, what do you remember?"

"Waking up somewhere unfamiliar. And that I wanted to get away from home."

"Home being DC."

"Yeah." Bucky raised his head, wiping his nose on his sleeve before smiling wryly. "Maybe I'm in a similar situation to you."

Clint laughed. "I doubt it," he said. "But if it makes you feel better, I've woken up plenty of times without knowing shit." He winced. "Maybe not quite as badly as you, but I've been there. Sort of. It's not the same, I know –"

"Relax, Clint, I get it."

"Oh. Right. Cool." 'Cool'? What kind of moronic response was that?

"Hey," Bucky said, seemingly unfazed by Clint's lack of conversation skills. "Seeing as we're both getting away from DC, how about we go somewhere together?"

Resisting the urge to check his hearing aids, Clint stared at him. "Together?"

"Yeah."

"As in, a kind of… runaways' road trip?"

Bucky smirked. "If you wanna call it that, then sure."

"Why?"

The smirk stuttered, and the light faded from Bucky's eyes. "It was just an idea," he mumbled. "But if you don't want to –"

"Hang on, I never said that." He glanced up, and Clint continued, "It was more: 'why would you want to travel with someone like me?'."

Bucky shrugged. "Between your smell, your desperation for a bed and your less-than-helpful financial situation, I figured you needed a hand."

"Hey. I made it this far okay."

"You were sleeping in trees."

"… It's not like I fell out of them."

He laughed, and extended the offer again, adding, "I might also appreciate the company."

If it were him suffering from memory loss, Clint knew he'd feel fucking hopeless. The few times he'd woken up not knowing where he was he'd at least been able to call a friend, or Duquesne and Chisholm would have found him sooner or later and taken him home, but until either of those things happened Clint had been prone to panicking. He'd often ended up calling half the people in his contact list trying to figure out what had occurred, one time sounding so distressed that Jan had ordered him to stay on the phone until she and Hank could locate him. If anyone knew the value of companionship, it was Clint Barton, and if Bucky was in need of someone who even slightly understood his situation – even a fuck-up like Clint – who was he to turn his back on the guy?

"Sure," he said with a grin. "Who knows where we'll end up?"


	2. Making Friends

We'll Make the World Ours

 **2\. Making Friends**

"My turn," Clint said as another car threw dust into their faces. "Dogs or cats?"

Bucky dropped his arm and rolled his eyes. Ever since they'd started this 'game', Clint's questions had been puzzlingly varied, ranging from 'favourite mode of transport' to 'if you had to fight a giant bear or a machine-gun-wielding gorilla…' in the last half hour alone. Part of him would prefer to try and catch a ride in silence, but another, rapidly growing part also found it quite amusing. "Dogs, I guess."

Clint nodded. "Good choice."

"Alright, here's one: why did you ask if I'd bought alcohol last night?"

"Are you serious?"

"That's a question; I get another."

His new friend grumbled under his breath for a moment. "You got Taco Bell," he said. They both raised their arms as another car approached. "I can't eat Taco Bell sober." It roared past, showering them in dust again. "I don't think anyone can."

Bucky had to agree with him on that. Had he known beforehand, he would definitely have tried to buy something to make the taste more bearable. "So I take it we're not buying Taco Bell ever again?"

"Not without getting simultaneously plastered." They thumbed a truck hopefully, and received dust and a horn blast in response. "Charming," Clint muttered, patting his hands on his jacket. Wincing, he reached up to his ears, fiddling with the small purple devices tucked behind them.

Eyes stinging, Bucky blinked rapidly until they stopped watering, resisting the urge to rub at them with even dustier fingers. "Fine, no Taco Bell. Next question… How long did it take you to get here?"

"Uh… A month, I think, give or take. Not very good at keeping track of the days by myself."

"You're telling me," Bucky snorted.

"What?"

"I said you're telling me!" he shouted as another truck blared past on the other side of the road. Clint still looked confused though, so Bucky gave up and insisted he take his turn.

"What's your favourite movie?"

Arm and thumb extended, Bucky froze. It was a simple question – not an easy one, some might say, but hardly complex in nature. He just had to name a film he'd seen. One he'd enjoyed, preferably. It might help to name one Clint had heard of too. Or was likely to have heard of. But what films would Clint have heard of? What if Bucky said one that had only just come out, one he'd seen on his 'travels'? What films had he seen advertised in the last few weeks? He had some vague, filmy-sounding titles at the ready, but what if they were books? Or worse, neither? Bucky had to have a favourite film. Everyone did. It was the normal –

"Don't remember, huh?"

His dry throat clicked as he swallowed. "That's another question." He kept his eyes on the road as he waited for the response. Maybe a car would take pity on them in the nick of time.

Clint sighed. "Alright. Go ahead."

Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Bucky searched for a question that would raise the levity again. "Would you rather fight a chicken-sized dinosaur or a dinosaur-sized chicken?"

Surprisingly, Clint burst out laughing. "That's ridiculous!"

"Well so is choosing between a bloodthirsty Russian bear and a gun-toting gorilla, but I still did it!"

He continued to laugh. Bucky was in no mind to stop him any time soon. "Okay," he gasped eventually, wiping at one eye. "Okay, I think I'll go for one chicken-sized dinosaur. Though in case you didn't know, some dinosaurs were actually chicken-sized."

"Not a T-Rex."

"Well you should've said if you had a specific one in mind!"

"Because the kind of dinosaur you're fighting makes that much of a difference."

"It does!" Clint said. "A chicken-sized diplodocus would be much easier to fight than a chicken-sized T-fucking-Rex."

Bucky chuckled. "You seem to know a lot about dinosaurs."

"Minor fascination as a kid," he said. "I had some toys, saw the Jurassic films, a few documentaries –"

"Oh yeah, definitely a minor fascination."

"Hey, I grew out of it!"

"Sure you did."

"I did!"

"You said you wanted to see that new Jurastic film that came out."

"Jurassic, Bucky. No 't' –"

"I rest my case."

Clint growled, setting Bucky off into another round of laughter. When they calmed down to indicate another car, Bucky decided to ask his second question. "What happened to your ears? If," he added hurriedly, "you don't mind me asking. I mean, I understand if you'd rather not say, so…"

After a few seconds, Clint just smirked. "Nah, it's fine. Childhood accident is all." He shook his head. "When someone tells you not to stick something down your ear, don't actually go and stick something down your ear." Bucky grimaced, and Clint snickered. "It was a broken pencil, if you're curious. Had these things ever since."

He held one out in his palm, the device looking remarkably un-extraordinary despite its bright colour. Bucky couldn't even begin to imagine what wearing one – what depending on a pair of them – must be like. "How bad is it?"

"Say what?"

"How bad is your – um –"

"My hearing loss?" he clarified, slipping the aid back into place. "Pretty bad. Can't hear great with just one in. Obviously." He grinned. "You have no idea how fun it is to wind people up with them, though." Bucky asked what he meant; "Saying 'my hearing aids are broken' is a great excuse to talk really loudly."

"Right… And why, exactly, is that fun?"

Clint shrugged, staring down at his feet. "Because it's better that way, yeah? People don't need reminding that I'm deaf when they do break, and they don't shower me in pity either. It's like – y'know, when people with missing limbs joke about it to ease the tension, or whatever."

"Oh." Bucky could understand that. He was about to apologise for his over-inquisitiveness when Clint suddenly pointed at him and made a noise.

"You asked an extra question!" He grinned. "I get two now!"

"You are far too excited about that," Bucky said, turning back to the road to flag down the next approaching car.

"What's with the tattoo?"

He should have expected that one, yet Bucky automatically rolled his left shoulder. "It's styled like an arm made of metal," he said, hoping to get away with just that.

"Yeah, I noticed that. I mean why did you get it done?"

"Hey, they're stopping."

"Ah, don't you try and weasel out of this one!"

"No, you idiot, this car is actually stopping!"

"What?"

Bucky could hardly believe it himself. For nearly an hour now the two of them had watched all manner of vehicle ignore them, but as he lived and breathed their luck had changed. True, it didn't look particularly glamorous, but what was it Clint had been saying last night? 'Beggars can't be choosers'; a rusty red box on wheels was, in Bucky's opinion, a far superior choice to walking the road.

And yet…

"Come on, Bucky," Clint said, hauling his bag onto his shoulder. "This could be our only chance to get out of here!"

Anticipation roiled in Bucky's gut as they approached the side of the car. What if the driver recognised him? What if he and Clint ended up right back where they started, with the people they were trying to get away from, because he wasn't careful about showing his face in public?

"Uh, hi," Clint said, bending down to talk through the window. "Thanks for stopping."

"Oh, it's no trouble," the red-headed girl in the passenger seat said. Her face was streaked with freckles, and there was something in the way she smiled that reminded Bucky of a shark. "Where are you two headed?"

Glancing back at Bucky, Clint answered for them both. "Anywhere south is good."

"Then you're in luck!" she cried. "We're on our way to Nevada – Las Vegas, of course. You want in?"

"You both wouldn't mind?" Bucky said, thinking the guy behind the driver's wheel might have some objection. He hadn't spoken yet, and didn't seem too pleased they had stopped.

But the girl said "Of course not!" and gestured for them both to get in.

"Are you sure about this?" Bucky asked Clint before he opened the door. "I mean, hitchhiking isn't always the safest thing to do."

"I know, but what choice do we have?" he pointed out. "We don't have enough for a bus or a train, never mind one that'll go as far as Vegas. And besides," he said, grinning. "Vegas!"

Bucky still wasn't convinced; not only was it more than a day's drive away, Vegas was an incredibly public place, if his memory was to be trusted. There was a chance he could persuade Clint to leave the ride sooner, in which case maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea… "Alright," he said, hoping he was masking the full force of his anxiety.

* * *

"… and Daddy would never let anyone get away with stealing from him. The poor man must have known that, yet he was still stupid enough to try. Well – Daddy made him pay, let me tell you. I won't go into all the gory details, but there was a lot of screaming, and the fucktard was never seen again after that. Good riddance, too; Daddy has to be able to rely on the people who work for him, and ungrateful little shits like that who think they can just take stuff and get away with it are dead. Wrong. It's all about loyalty – get it?"

Her name was Sinthea, his was Brock. She barely stopped talking, he barely said a word. They both creeped Bucky out, and as Sinthea stared back at him and Clint expectantly, he thought it would be best if he agreed with her.

As he nodded, Clint snorted next to him and said, "Yeah, I know that story."

Sinthea's eyes widened. "You do?"

As if realising he'd spoken aloud, Clint swallowed and shifted on his seat. "Yeah. My family are, uh, big on loyalty too."

"Wouldn't you do anything for them?" she asked dreamily.

"Um… If their lives depended on it, I guess."

For a long moment, Sinthea just stared over the back of her seat at Clint. Then, just as Bucky noticed he was beginning to squirm, she flipped her attention to him. "What about your family? Do they value loyalty?" She narrowed her eyes. "Do you?"

Mildly terrified, Bucky opened his mouth to answer, hoping that whatever came out didn't put him on her bad side; yet before he could make a sound, it was Clint who said, "Bucky doesn't know much about his family."

Sinthea raised a thin red eyebrow. "Oh?" In the rear view mirror, Brock's eyes moved.

Bucky shrugged. "Amnesia," he said.

She stared at him for another few seconds, and just when Bucky was on the verge of squirming too, she made a disinterested noise and grinned at Clint. "My daddy doesn't trust people very easily. He likes Brock, because Brock shares his beliefs and loves me, but I think he might also like you."

"Great." The look Clint shared with Bucky suggested otherwise.

"Hey babe?" Brock said, breaking Sinthea's trance. "Can you just check the map again, make sure we're going the right way?"

Rolling her eyes, Sinthea huffed dramatically, whining as she twisted back into her seat, "Brock, I already checked, like, an hour ago!"

"I know you did –"

"We haven't been off this road –"

"Well I just wanna be sure!"

"What, you don't trust me?"

"Of course I do, Christ, I just want to know where we are!"

As the two of them continued to bicker over a map, Bucky let himself slide down into his seat. He hadn't envisioned this when he'd suggested to Clint they hitch a ride together, and now he was seriously reconsidering their choice. Fairly sure he had never done this sort of thing before, he had to wonder how he'd made it for so long without his family finding out where he was and what he was doing – were they looking for him at all? If not, how did he even feel about that? How was he supposed to feel?

"So, what do you want to do in Vegas?"

Clint's question pulled Bucky out of his thoughts. Brock and Sinthea were still talking to one another (trading insults or endearments), so he shrugged and muttered, "Don't know. Not sure I know what's there."

"Casinos, mostly," Clint told him. "A lot of hotels, some clubs, an Eiffel Tower, a Statue of Liberty, a pyramid –"

"The Statue of Liberty? I thought that was in Manhattan?" Was his memory that shot up?

Clint snickered. "It is. Vegas is known for it's… mock-ups, I guess. Good mock-up though. Had me fooled for a few hours."

"Only a few hours?"

He made a face. "I may have been kinda drunk." Bucky laughed into his hand. "What? Everyone gets drunk in Vegas."

"I see," Bucky said, smiling still. "Is that what we'd end up doing?"

Scoffing, Clint said, "If you can keep hold of most of that spare cash you've got, we might be able to get a drink each. Two if we're lucky."

"Oh." On the one hand, he was glad; something about the idea of drinking to the point where you mistook fake landmarks for the real thing made him inexplicably anxious.

"But it's okay," Clint continued. "Maybe we'll get lucky and win big in one of the casinos."

Bucky grimaced. "Not me. Pretty sure I can't play."

"Sure you can," Brock said from the front. "It's easy to pick up. I bet even the princess could do it if she tried." He snorted. "Hell, they might even rig it so she wins a bit, just to please her dad."

"Daddy says the royal family needs taking down a peg or two," Sinthea added. "It's not like they run the country. Not even President Rogers has that much power, really."

"Oh yeah?" Bucky said, sitting up. "Then who does?"

"The corporations, duh. Without them, America wouldn't have any money, and neither would the royals or the President. Businesses like Kronas Corp, Roxxon and Oscorp actually work to benefit the country – they know what America wants and what it needs, and are working to provide that."

"You think the country should be run by business owners?" Clint asked. Bucky detected a hint of incredulity in his tone.

"Well why not? President Rogers just listens to his senators argue between themselves, and King George or Queen Winifred occasionally turn up at a charity event and smile at the cameras a lot." She scoffed. "America's really benefitting from that."

"Businessmen can't govern a country!" he exclaimed. "They have no interest in it beyond the economy, and wouldn't give a damn about anyone less fortunate than themselves."

"Uh, they are the economy. And without the economy, then where would we be?"

"That doesn't give them the right to govern," Bucky said, and refused to flinch when Sinthea turned to glare at him. "There's more to running a country than managing the economy. President Rogers has to make sure the right laws are being passed and balance the views of everyone in the government – his plans for the country are hugely beneficial, covering everything from the economy to housing and education, but because some people in opposing parties don't agree with him, he has to fight to get even the most basic of plans into place. And as for the Royal Family, they're well aware that they neither own nor govern America, but they know how to use their role in our society for good; they've done charity work like no-one else, bringing awareness to a whole range of social issues most people wouldn't bat an eyelid at otherwise. They bring hope to people, they encourage others to do the same and to do the right thing. And yeah, you don't have to be royal to do that, but at least they're using their position to help those in need. I think that gives them more of a right to a say in which direction America goes."

"Oh, and I suppose being born into the 'right family' doesn't make a difference? Corporations donate to charity too, you know. It just isn't televised like it is with the royals. Daddy says –"

"I couldn't give a rat's ass what your daddy has to say about anything."

For the first time since they set off, the car was silent. Sinthea gawped at him from over the back of her seat, and he could feel Clint's eyes on him as well. In the rear-view mirror, Brock looked mildly amused; until his offended girlfriend demanded he say something in her defence, at which point he rolled his eyes and turned on the radio.

Under the cover of the music, Bucky took in a deep breath, clenching and unclenching his fists with the motion. From the corner of his eye he saw Clint still watching him, concern etched into his features. With an aborted movement of his hands he mouthed, 'Are you okay?' to Bucky, who responded with a curt nod and gave the passing scenery half his attention.

How could Sinthea believe all that bullshit? How could anyone, in fact, say that King George and his family needed 'taking down a peg'? And Joseph Rogers was one of the most honest, humble, and innately trustworthy people Bucky knew – it was impossible not to respect him and listen to what he had to say. Why, like Clint had said, would a bunch of self-interested and uncaring tycoons be better at, or more deserving of, the positions of the King and the President? Bucky was never so pleased as when Clint had joined his side just then. Hearing his defence of the royals and President Rogers in the face of Sinthea's idiocy was reassuring, to say the least. And a nice surprise, too, considering he'd had no reason to make himself a part of the feud. Bucky made a mental note to return the favour one day if he could, and was determined not to forget either the deed or the promise.

* * *

By the time they stopped for the evening, Sinthea had decided to forgive Bucky and Clint for their misguided beliefs, and assured them both that they were back on her and Brock's good sides. Bucky refrained from telling her the feeling was far from mutual, and let Clint do most of the talking – at least, until they came to book into the hotel.

"Wait, one room for four?"

Brock and Sinthea stared at him. "Well of course," Sinthea said. "There are four of us."

"I know, but what's wrong with getting two twin rooms?"

"I'm afraid we don't have any more twin rooms available," the guy behind the desk informed him.

"You see? A room for four it is."

"No, wait –" He leant forward, addressing the desk clerk. "What else do you have?"

"Hey!" Sinthea said, but before she could continue Clint intervened.

"Listen, Sinthea, it's nothing personal – really, it's not. We just figured you and Brock might like some space to yourselves again. Y'know, since you didn't plan on picking people up along the way. Uh… did you?"

She opened her mouth, but was beaten to it by Brock; "No, we didn't, and that's very considerate of you." Ignoring Sinthea's pout, he repeated Bucky's question to the clerk.

"The only two separate rooms we have available are two doubles, each with one queen-sized bed and en-suite facilities."

"That's fine," Bucky said, realising belatedly that he hadn't checked if that was alright with Clint. There were no complaints though, so he reached into his pocket for their last few dollars.

"Hey man, this one's on us."

Bucky and Clint stared at Brock. Clint managed to find his voice first: "Really? I mean, we can pay a bit –"

"And then have nothing left for Vegas? You've got fifteen dollars between you," Brock pointed out. "Besides, Sin's dad's paying." He waved a black credit card, smirking, and his dislike for Sinthea's father aside, Bucky was fine with that arrangement.

With the rooms settled, they each went their separate ways ("You can come and hang out any time!" Sinthea said), and Bucky breathed easily for the first time in hours.

"You don't like them, do you?"

Glancing at Clint over his shoulder, Bucky shrugged. "Haven't got a problem with Brock, though he does seem a bit… odd. His girlfriend has a few screws loose though."

"Does she?" Clint chuckled. "Controversial, sure, and maybe a bit obsessed with her father –"

"'A bit'? Clint, she talked about him more than anything else. Freud would be drooling over her."

"Alright, so she's giving off a bit of a crazy vibe." He dropped his bag onto one side of the bed. "We only have to be nice to them until we hit Vegas. It can't be that much farther."

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. "Um, about that…"

"What's wrong?"

Joining him on the bed, Bucky admitted that Vegas had lost its appeal. He didn't tell the whole truth, but enough that Clint was swayed. "I'm sorry, I just –"

"Hey, no, it's totally fine," Clint insisted with a smile. "We'll just have to figure out where they can drop us off. Nevada's not all desert, right?"

"I don't think so."

"Brock and Sinthea have a map," Clint said. "I'll ask them if I can have a look at it later."

"I bet Sinthea would love to show you whatever you asked for," Bucky snickered.

Clint blinked at him. "Huh?"

"You didn't see the way she would look at you?"

"What do you mean?"

"She had that stare. Like you'd expect her to look at Brock…" He looked genuinely clueless. "You really didn't see that?" Bucky was surprised.

"My eyesight's perfect. It's you seeing too much."

"Oh, I'm not, believe me," he said, withholding more laughter. As a distraction, he said, "Hey, put the TV on will you?"

"We have an actual remote!" Clint crowed, and Bucky grinned as he flicked through the channels happily. Once he was happy with his choice, they both settled back into the pillows.

As the credits for whatever show they just missed rolled, Bucky found himself thinking that Clint was a lot closer to him than he'd ever been so far on this trip. Obviously, on a double bed, personal space was somewhat limited, but what if Clint was uncomfortable sharing a bed with him? He hadn't had much say in the matter, after all, and shower or no Bucky knew the clothes he was wearing needed a wash. Clint, having at least one spare change, didn't smell bad at all. Not that Bucky was particularly focusing on the way Clint smelt; it was just something he happened to notice given their proximity. And that wasn't bothering him at all, either. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been this physically close to someone (there was a millisecond of a memory flitting at the edge of his mind's eye, so fleeting he couldn't be sure it was a real one), but it was quite comforting, in a way. He was relaxed. Mostly. And anyway, Clint would probably have said something if he wasn't okay with the double bed. Yeah… Yeah, this was fine.

"Can you believe last time we watched the news it was so we could tell the time?" Clint shook his head, oblivious to the way Bucky had tensed up at his words. "And it was only yesterday, too."

"Yeah. Weird." He needed to get out; Clint hadn't seemed to notice anything yesterday, but if he did – best case scenario, Bucky would have to answer some awkward questions. The worst case scenario didn't bear thinking about. "Hey, I'm just gonna go outside for a bit."

"Cool," Clint said, following him with his eyes. "You 'kay?"

"I'm fine, but I could do with fresh air, you know? Been inside a car too long."

"True. You'll come back though?"

Bucky paused at the door, confused. "Well yeah," he said, "where else would I go?"

"Oh. Sure, um, that's good. Sorry. You can go now. Enjoy your… outside…"

"It's fine," Bucky said slowly. "And thanks. You enjoy the show." Clint nodded, a little red at the cheeks, and Bucky hurried out.

The air wasn't what he'd call cool, but it was preferable to awkwardly staking out the corridor or the entrance. Leaning back against the brick wall, Bucky closed his eyes. This was why he couldn't go to Vegas, or any big city really: too many close calls like that would be the end of him, and he'd be back in DC before he could say 'excelsior'. On top of that, he was starting to get memories back – or hints of memories, at least. The flicker he'd seen earlier was now accompanied by more snippets of similar images, each one giving off the impression of friendliness and comfort, easiness, and it was all so damn familiar. If he could just concentrate on one of them, maybe he could… stretch it out, unravel it, find a place or a face to put –

"Hey."

Half-leaping from the wall, Bucky found he'd been joined by Brock, and covered his shock quickly. "Hey. Uh, look, I'm…" He swallowed. "I'm sorry about earlier, in the car –"

Brock cut him off with a laugh. "Oh, don't be. You have no idea how many times I've said that to her myself, and I still have to put up with 'Daddy this' and 'Daddy that'. I mean, I love her, don't get me wrong, but her dad's practically a saint in her eyes." He snorted. "Bastard's far from it; but as long as I'm in his good books, I'm not rocking the boat, you know what I'm saying?"

"Uh, yeah, I think so."

Brock held out a hand, showing Bucky one of the two beer bottles he was holding. "Clint told me you were outside."

Mumbling his thanks, Bucky took the proffered drink, letting Brock open it for him and clinking the glass when prompted. He was too uneasy to actually have a sip himself, and went back to staring at nothing, hoping he could sort through his head in peace.

"So what's your old man like?" Brock asked a minute later.

Twitching the corner of his mouth, Bucky shook his head. "Don't know."

"Oh, yeah, amnesia, right?"

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "Yours?"

"Never knew him," Brock said casually, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his jacket. "You smoke?"

He declined, holding Brock's beer for him while the other lit one up. The flame was small but bright in the dim lighting, dancing side to side alluringly – familiarly; only this flame wasn't produced by a silver zippo, one that would open with a snick and shut with a click, again and again, and it should have been annoying, but it never had been, not to him –

"Not watching the news?"

Bucky blinked. "Uh, no. I'm not especially interested."

"Really?" he said with a chuckle. "After that great speech about Joe Rogers and the Royals, I figured you were big on current affairs. You really knew your stuff."

"Oh, that?" Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. "I was just… making it up as I went. Repeating things I'd heard other people say before, you know?"

"Each to their own, then," Brock said, taking a drag. "I'd have thought it would help, though. With the amnesia and all."

"Help?"

"Yeah." Brock looked at him. "You never know, something on there might trigger a memory."

Throat tight, Bucky played it cool, shrugging a shoulder again. "Maybe," he said.

"But then I guess amnesia can be kind of convenient at times, huh?"

This was bad. In trying to escape the worst case scenario, Bucky was watching it u food before him. "I wouldn't say… Uh, I'm gonna see if Clint –"

"I know who you are, James."

Bucky froze, panic wrapping itself around his limbs and forcing out his old fall-back; "That's not –"

"Cut the crap," Brock said, stepping forward and crowding Bucky's personal space, "and do as I say."

* * *

 **AN:** I feel like this should've been longer... :/ eh. Might edit later. Speaking of, before uploading this, I slightly edited the previous chapter. If you read that earlier, maybe go back and see if you can pick up on the differences. ;-)


	3. Strange Company

**AN:** Small warning for a bit of violence, though it's really not that graphic. In fact, blink and you might miss it...

* * *

We'll Make the World Ours

 **3\. Strange Company**

'Enjoy your outside,' he'd said. Why? What on Earth had possessed his tongue to form those words, and in that particular order? How could Bucky expect him to say anything of sense ever again?

After Bucky left, Clint had barely paid attention to the news. From what he could see, it was more or less the same stories from yesterday, so it wasn't like he was missing much. Besides, his mind had more important things to focus on – like how he suddenly couldn't speak properly in front of his new friend. He'd done many stupid things in his life, he'd be the first to admit to that, but for some reason this latest transgression was easily one of the worst. Much worse than the time he'd fallen out of a window onto a car. Not as painful, perhaps, but at least it didn't make him look like an – at least he hadn't embarrassed – at least Bucky hadn't been there.

In fact, now that he thought about it, Clint was pleasantly surprised to note that it had been a while since he'd had to use a first aid kit. And received an eye-roll from Jess. And drunk to forget. And hung out with his friends. And argued with his brother. And last held a bow. As the TV droned on in the background, that single thought hit Clint like an arrow to the gut, and he found himself pulling out his hearing aids and closing his eyes to just remember what that felt like: the grip against his hand, the taught string biting the pads of his fingers; the satisfying feelings of nocking and drawing back an arrow in one fluid motion; nothing but the target in his sights, his mind empty.

That was why he'd taken up archery in the first place. Having literally fallen onto a target lane as a boy (an incident he now insisted was destiny), Clint had rarely gone a day without doing something related to the sport since. Whether it was something as simple as checking the condition of his arrows to challenging himself on the range, it was as if a bow and arrow had become part of his life force. Initially, he'd used the sport as a way to prove himself, to show his father that there was something he could do that Barney couldn't. As time passed though, and life began to play like a broken record, he'd found solace in the intricacies archery offered: he could concentrate on few things at a time, get into a rhythm, hone his accuracy, and even just get a general work out. On top of all that, he could escape, too; there were times – bad times – when Clint would focus so hard on getting his posture right, on feeling comfortable and correct, that he would stand poised until his arms began to shake, the arrow still nestled within his bow's hold, all because of something Barney had said, or his father had tried to make him do. In over ten years, the only person to ever have pulled Clint away from the shooting range on such an occasion was Jess.

Clint sighed, dragging a hand down his face. God, if he was ever a candidate for Best Worst Boyfriend… The day that finally dawned on him still rang as strong in his mind as the sound of her hand on his face. Not that being slapped had been the catalyst – Kate's lack of sympathy had done it, and to this day Clint maintained he deserved none. Sure, he and Jess had moved on. They were friendly enough, and though he never asked she was there when he needed someone, but he would really be an idiot if he thought that meant he was excused. It was why he hadn't dated since her. He couldn't bring himself to hurt someone that way again.

And yet, wasn't that what he was doing by leaving D.C.? Abandoning people he loved and cared about for selfish reasons? Maybe he should warn Bucky –

The door opened suddenly, making Clint leap out of his skin. Between one erratic heartbeat and the next, Sinthea materialised by his bedside, her lips already moving as she all but shoved an open beer bottle into his face. Recoiling slightly, Clint fumbled for his aids, and when Sinthea didn't seem to take the hint and repeat whatever she'd said, he accepted her offering out of politeness.

"Brock's gone to see if Bucky wants one too," she said, plopping onto the end of his mattress. "They'll probably be out there for ages, because Brock likes to talk – and he'll probably want to smoke too – so it looks like it'll just be us for a while!"

"Yay," Clint said, taking a deep swig of his drink.

"So; what kind of things would you and a pretty girl normally talk about?"

"Uh, I don't really –"

"Ooh! Hobbies. What are your hobbies? You must have one."

Clint cleared his throat. Sinthea was staring at him again, and after Bucky's comments earlier, it was hard not to notice just how intense that stare was. To say it made him uncomfortable was no small understatement. "Well, I used to do a lot of archery."

"Really?" she said, eyebrows rising. "You some kind of Robin Hood?"

He snorted. "Nah. There was only so much I could do, y'know?" As he drank a little more he thought of the various ways he'd tried to make the range more interesting, moving the target on top of or between various household items his father hadn't cared for. It worked for all of one month.

"Daddy has a shooting range too."

"Yeah?"

Sinthea nodded from where she was now perched by his knees (and when had that happened?). "Not for arrows, though," she explained. "For guns."

"Guns?"

"Big ones, small ones, foreign ones, historic ones, automatics, semi-automatics, handhelds – he even has an RPG." She giggled. "I like that one the best. But the ammunition is expensive, so I'm only allowed to get it out on very special occasions. Like my birthday."

Clint swallowed. "That sounds… smart."

"Have you ever fired an RPG Clint?"

More beer. "No," he said, shaking his head.

"I'll tell you what it's like."

"Oh, that's okay, you don't have to." But Sinthea was already leaning across him to put her bottle on his bedside table, making Clint aware not only of how revealing her top was, but also that she was creeping closer again, choosing to sit back down next to his hips. He tried to edge away subtly.

"Imagine you're holding it in your hands," Sinthea said, eyes gleaming. "You can feel the power in it already, how sturdy it is, how thick and strong. You can see the head in front of you, big and round, and you know that that is where the true fire-power lies; and you're just so excited, knowing that your finger is on the trigger – such a small thing, but a gentle stroke, the lightest of touches, can bring such excitement and pleasure. You squeeze the grip, apply pressure, and you feel a rush of energy run through the whole length of it, from the base to the tip. Then there's a jerk, and it flies out! Just like that – one second, 'whoosh', the next, 'explosion!', and it leaves you feeling breathless and glorious and excited all at once, and there's so much mess but it's such a good mess, because you never knew you could feel that good, right? Like, the kind of good that leaves you shaking afterwards. And all you had to do was squeeze a little and the head just shot –"

"Are you trying to seduce me?"

Sinthea blinked. "What?"

Thinking that might have been a 'no', Clint swallowed, and in true Clint Barton style he went and stuck his foot in further. "I know you were only talking about guns, but you were making it quite, um… sexy. In a non-sexy way. Unless you do find that kind of thing sexy – which, y'know, totally fine, each to their own. It's just that, I don't? And you're already with Brock? And that kind of talk might work with him, but it doesn't – shit, sorry, that's none of my business –"

"Oh my god shut the fuck up already!" He snapped his mouth shut, and, looking disgusted, she continued; "Why the hell would I be trying to seduce you if a, I'm with Brock, and b, I'm trying to kill you?"

"Right, you're with Brock! And that's – hang on, my aids must be playing up," Clint said with a chuckle, reaching up to fiddle with them. "I thought you just said you were trying to kill me."

"I did." And before he could process that, Sinthea had him pinned very tightly to the bed, her hands on his wrists and her legs either side of his waist. After that particular description, it was not the position Clint wanted to be in. "Just so you know, this wasn't my idea," she said from above him, fingers painfully tight around his wrists. "I would have quite liked to have taken you with us, but Brock's right: we can't leave witnesses."

Clint absolutely did not squeak as he said, "Witnesses?"

"It's nothing personal," she added, moving his arms above his head. "We just can't risk the chance of you escaping, yeah? Though I still think we could have made you loyal to us within a few weeks." Holding his hands in one of hers, Sinthea smiled, trailing her other hand down Clint's chest and making him shudder. "Oh, yeah, we could have had so much fun with you," she purred.

"What about Bucky?" Clint asked, distantly impressed that his voice wasn't high-pitched and shaky.

"Brock's taking care of him." From her cleavage she produced a penknife, opening it out deftly with her teeth.

"Taking…" His heart stuttered.

"Don't squirm too much, now – Brock likes this top, and I don't want to get blood all over it."

Tony had once told Clint he was America's biggest magnet for trouble, and even Clint couldn't deny that he'd been in his fair share of bad situations. This, though, this was Bad. So Bad that he still couldn't process it even as it was happening. Had he really lead Bucky to his death, and stumbled into his own too? There was no way he was ready to go; he hadn't even begun thinking about what Heaven was like –

The door opened. Both Clint and Sinthea turned at the intrusion, and Clint's eyebrows shot up when he saw who had come to his timely rescue. "Bucky?"

Sinthea's jaw dropped. "What the fuck?"

Taking advantage of her surprise, Clint wrenched free one of his hands, balling it into a fist and swinging at her head. He connected solidly with her temple, and as she ducked and cried out Bucky launched himself at her from the doorway, sweeping her off the other side of the bed. As he wrestled with her on the ground, Clint scrambled over to help; "Get the knife!" he shouted at Bucky, half-falling on top of them. Through luck more than skill he was able to trap Sinthea awkwardly underneath his body, bearing her attempts to throw him off until Bucky had secured the penknife. A quick jab of his elbow into her temple seemed to knock her out, though he didn't move off her until he was sure she wasn't going to stir and bite his ankle. Or worse.

"Shit," Bucky gasped, chest heaving as they stood up.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you do that sooner?"

Clint shrugged. "Didn't think of it until then?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Course you didn't."

"Hey, I was more concerned about that knife she was waving at us!"

"Which she wouldn't have been waving if you'd knocked her out sooner."

"So why didn't you try it?"

He faltered, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't think of it."

"There, see? It's not so…" Now that they weren't tangled on the floor in a fight for their lives (more or less), Clint noticed Bucky's bloody nose and a thin, shallow cut on his cheek.

Under scrutiny, Bucky touched the blood on his upper lip. Wincing slightly he said, "Brock came at me. He didn't have a knife, but the guy knew how to punch."

Clint nodded. "Sinthea said; only the way she said it, I thought…" He cleared his throat. "What happened to him?"

"Brock? I, uh, might have smashed a beer bottle over his head."

"Whoa. Okay. And I knocked out his girlfriend." Who had been trying to kill him, and could wake up to finish the job at any moment – Clint wasn't a light puncher, but he wasn't his brother either. "Maybe we should get out of here."

"Let me grab some tissues."

Leaving the motel seemed like the best idea, though Clint only realised once they were outside (passing an unsettlingly empty front desk on the way) that they had no means of getting much further without being caught again so soon.

"What about their car?" Bucky suggested, the toilet paper stuffed up his nose giving his words an oddly comical nasal tone that Clint might have giggled at if he wasn't so keyed up. "We could see if they left the keys in their room."

"And risk running into them again? No." Clint shook his head, but started towards the car. "I got this."

The first and only car he'd ever hotwired had been a Chrysler belonging to someone his father was meeting with when he was eight, but Barney had been a good teacher, and Clint thanked his tiny pot of luck that Brock owned such a shoddy car. As it sputtered to life he grinned at Bucky and beckoned for him to get in.

"How'd you know how to do that?" his friend asked as Clint reversed.

"I was a bored kid," he said nonchalantly. A quick glance in the rear view mirror didn't reveal anyone running after them, but it was dark, and he sped away as a precaution. He noticed Bucky looking over his shoulder too, something that he drew comfort from after everything that had just happened.

And shit, where to begin with that?

"How's your nose?" he asked a few minutes later, most of the tension reduced to a slightly-accelerated heart rate.

Pulling out the tissues with a hiss, Bucky answered, "Sore."

It was too dark in the car to see properly, but Clint was familiar with busted noses to know that 'sore' was putting it nicely. "Hey, look," he said quietly, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

He gripped the steering wheel. "For dragging you into that. If I hadn't insisted on riding with those freaks –"

"Clint."

"You wouldn't be hurt and we might be somewhere better –"

"We don't know –"

"So I'm sorry I fucked up and nearly got you killed."

"Killed?"

He took a shaky breath. "If you don't want to travel together anymore, I'll understand." Though part of him desperately wanted Bucky to stay. It had been too long since Clint had spent this much time with anybody, and yeah, he barely knew Bucky, but the companionship was nice. And what he knew of him so far, he liked.

"Brock wasn't trying to kill me."

"What?"

In the corner of Clint's eye, Bucky shrugged. "He said he knew who I was, and tried to – I don't know, kidnap me or something."

Could the night get any weirder? "Huh. Did he reveal anything?"

Bucky sighed. "No, not really."

"And you didn't remember him?"

"I think he was lying. I mean, even if I had known him before, why wouldn't he have said something earlier? And why treat me that way?"

It made sense, though Clint thought he could detect a trace of disappointment in Bucky's tone. "Wait, they were going to take you and just kill me?" He made a face. "I'm strangely offended."

"Guess Sinthea's favour didn't get you very far after all," Bucky said, chuckling, and Clint shuddered in his seat.

"Dude, you don't want to know some of the things she said to me before you saved my ass." Except there was nothing else to immediately talk about, and in adrenaline-tinted hindsight, it was side-splittingly funny.

* * *

Despite the rush of tiredness he felt once the adrenaline had left his system, Clint insisted he could drive for a few hours while Bucky slept. It had been a while since he'd driven anywhere – most of his favourite haunts in D.C. were within walking distance, and the car his father had given him was too ostentatious for his liking. The highway was fairly easy to navigate, though, and he relaxed into the task, keeping one eye on the road and one eye on a restless Bucky. He was familiar with the kinds of dreams that followed traumatic events like what they'd been through (and was oh so eagerly anticipating his own), and hoped Bucky's weren't too bad.

Funny that a guy he'd met roughly forty-eight hours ago had already saved his life. Clint couldn't believe Bucky still wanted to stay with him after he'd dragged him into that mess. The phrase 'sorry I fucked up' aptly described his life, and past lovers would probably agree that he didn't have the greatest success in the relationship department. There had been days when a friend or two – most frequently Kate and Jess – had to remind him that he wasn't completely useless and totally alone, though he hadn't had one of those days in a while.

Because he hadn't seen anyone he knew in a while.

Before he could think himself into a headache, Bucky woke up next to him with a jerk and a sharp intake of breath. Clint gave him a quick glance, saw wide-eyed confusion, and sympathised instantly. "Hey Bucky," he said. "You okay?"

"Um." Bucky cleared his throat. "Yeah. Fine." He shifted in his seat, a funny little wiggle that reminded Clint of the time he'd tried to drown out his brother's lecture by thinking about what he and Jess were going to do that evening, and his thoughts had strayed into 'risky' territory.

Oh.

Well, this was… Shit. What the hell was Clint supposed to do now? Should he let Bucky know he knew? Make a joke out of the situation? Put him at ease? Let him je- sort himself out in the backseat? What if Sinthea and Brock had – Clint's mind reeled, and his tongue took over; "Nice night for dreaming." Brilliant.

Silence met him for a few seconds, Bucky's unsure "Yeah," breaking Clint's mental litany of 'fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck'. "How long was I asleep for?"

"Not sure. Hour and a half, maybe?" Normal conversation. Clint could do this. "I wasn't keeping track, sorry."

"That's alright," Bucky mumbled, digging his fingers into his eyes. "So, where are we headed?"

"West-ish?"

"West-ish."

"Yep."

"You haven't been following road signs, have you?"

In all fairness, he'd just been the victim of a traumatic experience – the last thing on his mind was road signs and where they were going beyond away from the crazy murdering kidnappers. And, had his brain been working properly, Clint might have said that instead of, "We're not following road signs."

"Why not?"

"Because…" What would Bobbi do, what would Kate do, what would Barney do – "Because we need to change cars first. If we stay on the road too long, chances are we'll get caught. I mean, Brock would probably phone in about his car, right?"

In the passenger seat, Bucky nodded. "Okay. But how do you suggest we do that?"

"Well, it's late, so people already at motels might be asleep. We could just drive in, park, and drive out in a different one?"

Sighing deeply, Bucky agreed to the plan, pointing out that motels were also signposted. "So pay attention now, maybe?"

"Sure." Rather than let silence take hold again, Clint asked, "Are you okay with all that, though?"

Bucky let out a brittle laugh. "Not entirely," he admitted, "but we don't have much choice, do we?"

Clint swallowed. "'We', huh…"

"Yeah. We." In the corner of his eye, he saw Bucky grinning. "I saved your ass, remember?"

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Your timing was pretty spectacular."

"Tell me, does it always end that way between you and women?"

"No! Well. Not always." Bucky laughed. "Thanks, by the way."

"What for?"

"For your bloody nose and diving across the bed with a knife-wielding lunatic."

"You're welcome," Bucky said, snickering. "Thanks for hot-wiring the car of the guy who tried to kidnap me."

"Any time," Clint returned, grinning as well. "Don't suppose you've remembered anything since then, have you?"

"No," he said. "Not exactly." Clint prompted him to explain. "Y'know, I've got blurry faces and blurry people, but they could be faces and people from anywhere. There's no context still. And after what Brock said, I…" He sighed, putting his elbow on the window's edge and dropping his head into his hand. "What if I do know him, Clint?" he asked quietly, his face a shadow against the black landscape. "What kind of person was I that I let someone like him into my life?"

"A better one," Clint said, without hesitation. "Sometimes, Bucky, people like that? They don't show their true colours to everyone. Normally it's only a matter of time before you see their other side, but whoever they are really? That's not a reflection of who you are. You choose your friends based on what you know of them. Not your fault if they don't let you know everything."

Bucky didn't respond. This time, Clint let the silence settle.

They took the next exit off the highway to a nondescript motel, where Clint worked his brother's magic once again and got them another equally terrible car. Bucky offered to drive, assuring Clint that he'd watched as Clint had been driving and was confident enough that he could do so without killing them both. With that decided, Clint took a turn at sleeping, unaware of just how tired he was until he tipped his head back against the headrest.

He was mildly confused when he opened his eyes to a beach, the wide stretch of sand rough and gritty. All he could hear was the deep sighing of the sea, the sound echoing round his ears as if it were his own heartbeat. Propping himself up on his elbows, he squinted against the sun as he watched Bucky run across his vision at full pelt, and when he felt rather than heard someone shout behind him, Clint scrambled to join his friend. The police were coming – they had to get away, had to get Bucky away. The sea roared around his head as they ran. Turning a sharp corner they entered the city, pelting down the road as the police gained on them. The skyscrapers, looming above them, glossy against the night sky, watched with interest as Clint and Bucky fled for their lives; because there was no doubt in Clint's mind that if Brock, Sinthea and the police caught him, he was a dead man, and he couldn't be separated from Bucky because they needed each other, they were in –

"Clint?"

Opening his eyes again, Clint was relieved to find himself in a car, where he should always have been (not on that creepy beach-city place). Digging the heel of his hand into his eye, he mumbled "Hm?" as he pushed himself up in his seat, hoping to get comfortable.

"We're almost back in civilisation," Bucky said. "You wanna stop for some food?"

"Food?" He looked out of his window, suddenly noticing the pale blue sky and distinct fields that had been dark patches moments ago. "What time is it?"

"Sometime in the morning. Sunrise was a while ago."

"Oh." Stupid dream beaches. Clint's stomach rumbled, so he said "Food, sure." Then he groaned, as with the thought of food came the thought of "Coffee. God, I need coffee."

Bucky chuckled. "Been a while?"

"Doesn't bear thinking about," Clint said, picturing a whole pot-full of glorious, dark, bitter-scented caffeine, steam rising faintly from the top, radiating warmth… "How long until coffee?"

Checking a passing road sign, Bucky hesitated. "Soon?"

"How soon is 'soon'?"

"… Soon."

"But soon when, Bucky?"

After five minutes of conversation passing in that same manner – during which Bucky suppressed a laughing fit and Clint lost all familiarity with the word 'soon' – Clint gave up and went back to that most terrible of pastimes: thinking. His mind wandered back to that moment in his dream when they'd been in the city, the police or Brock or whoever the fuck it was chasing them, and the strongest feeling Clint had had was that he needed to protect Bucky, to get him away from the trouble following them. Taking recent events into account, it seemed as though he'd have to do the same in real life as well. As America's biggest magnet for trouble, there was only one possible solution in Clint's mind.

Before he could think any more on the matter, Bucky asked him to keep a lookout for somewhere they could stop and get food. Clint, desperate for a cup of coffee, was more than happy to oblige, and it wasn't long before he spotted what appeared to be a cyber café. "That means computers."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Yeah. And…?"

"Computers. Google Maps."

Grinning slightly as he caught on to what Clint was suggesting, Bucky nodded and said "Good idea," praise that made Clint pinch himself. They parked around the corner, and five agonising minutes later Clint was inhaling an okay-sized cup of black coffee.

"It's so good."

Bucky made a face. "It was a dollar twenty-five."

"I know but it's so good."

He rolled his eyes and slotted the appropriate change into the computer port. "Alright – so, being mindful of the fact that we don't actually have that much money left, where do we want to go?"

Clint peeled his eyes open and squinted at the loading web browser. "Not Vegas, I presume."

"No way," Bucky confirmed. "Too many reasons not to go." Murderous psychopaths being the biggest, Clint supposed. "We can also find out where we are now," Bucky pointed out as the Google Maps loaded up.

"Oh yeah, good idea." He would have said more, but his coffee was begging to be drunk, despite his desire to make the okay-sized cup last.

That idea was going well up to the point Bucky exclaimed "Colorado?" and Clint, twice surprised, spat his current mouthful out over the desk.

"Where?"

"We're in fucking Colorado!"

"Shit," Clint mumbled, looking around for a napkin and avoiding the waitress' glare. "I've never been to Colorado before."

"Neither have I…" Bucky rubbed his forehead, scrunching his face up as he stared at the screen. "So where the hell were we before this?"

"Not a clue." In hindsight, he really should have paid attention to those road signs.

Sighing, Bucky said, "I guess it doesn't matter anymore. We're here to decide where we're going, not where we've been, right?"

"Right," Clint nodded, tossing the coffee-soaked napkin into the bin. Turning back, he tried not let himself get distracted by other pressing issues as Bucky scrolled out from Colorado, wanting to help his friend figure out a route to wherever.

They spent the next thirty minutes going over logistics of sorts – where they wanted to go, what they could do once there, how they'd get there, how long it might take, how much money they'd need – and eventually settled on going to Arizona. Neither had been (to Bucky's knowledge at least), but Bucky had a strong desire to see the Grand Canyon. "Can't say why," he admitted, "but it just popped into my head. I think I've wanted to go there for a while now?"

"Arizona's a long way from D.C."

"That's a pro to going."

"Hot and sandy though."

Bucky grinned. "Not scared of a bit of heat are you Clint?"

Clint scoffed. "The hotter my coffee, the better," he said, punctuating the point by throwing his now empty okay-sized cup into the trash. Watching it go made him sad, and he briefly debated going to buy another.

"Then it's settled," Bucky said, "we're going to Arizona."

"We can get coffee on the way, right?"

With a promise to find coffee at some point on the way to Arizona, Bucky left to go to the toilet. The timer on the computer still showed another seven minutes paid usage left, and Clint suddenly had an idea. On a scale of Google Maps to hitchhike with murderers, it was, he thought, closer to the brilliance of his Google Maps suggestion, and he worked quickly, hoping Bucky wasn't about to make an appearance. This was, after all, for his benefit, and the less he knew about it the better.

For the first time in months, Clint pulled his credit card out of his pocket; by the time Bucky returned from the toilet, he'd successfully booked a flight to Florida.

* * *

 **AN:** 21st September - Winterhawk Week 2015 begins! I'll be writing; hope you'll be reading ;-)

Did you know I'm on Tumblr? :-)


	4. An Interlude, An Intervention

**AN:** Fucking. Finally. First off, to those who have been waiting: I am so, so sorry about how long this chapter has taken to arrive! (Writer's block = small understatement.) I really hope that the wait has been worth it, and I'll try not to take so long with the next chapters. Secondly, because it's taken so long, I haven't done a serious edit of this. I might do one later on, but until then, there very well may be mistakes. And I'm not 100% happy with it - haven't been all the way through, tbh - but I'm tired of spending so long on the same chapter, and until I get in a better writing headspace, it won't get better. Anyway - I think you've waited long enough now, so the final thing I'll say is: thank you so much for your patience!

* * *

We'll Make the World Ours

 **4\. An Interlude, An Intervention**

The bathroom was very white. From the tiles to the cubicles themselves. And clean. White and clean and bright enough to induce a small headache. It gave Bucky the sense of something he couldn't quite put his finger on, and with the Grand Canyon memory already pushing itself around his head, he was growing frustrated.

Having done his business, he went to the gleaming sink and wet his hands, pressing them both to his face before the water started to feel warm. Leaning against the porcelain he squinted into the mirror and tried to work out what it was about the Grand Canyon that had him so… worked up, for lack of a better phrase. Two conversations were overlapping themselves in his memory: one he'd just had with Clint, and another one with a voice he couldn't place. All he could discern was that the person was young, male, and incredibly important to him.

 _"The Grand Canyon?"_

 _"Yeah. I know you haven't been, so stop looking at me like I'm crazy."_

 _"I'm just surprised you haven't been."_

 _"You think my parents have time to take me anywhere?"_

 _"Alright, you have a point there."_

 _"So. You'd come, right? If I asked you to?"_

 _"What, to the Grand Canyon?"_

 _"No, idiot, Mars."_

 _"Ha ha, you're so funny… Well, I guess it'd be nice to go somewhere warm. Out of the North in general, really. And the view is supposed to be pretty spectacular –"_

 _"Gee, where'd you hear that?"_

 _"Oh my god, do you want me to go with you or not?"_

 _"I'm asking, aren't I?"_

 _"Not very nicely."_

 _"Christ, just give me an answer –"_

 _"Yes, Bucky! Yes, I'd go to the Grand Canyon with you… Hell, I'd follow you to Alaska if you wanted to go that badly."_

Would that person still follow him to Alaska? Would Clint follow him to Alaska? Bucky shivered, the water sill cold on his face, and tried to discern more about this mystery friend; but it wasn't long before another shiver went down his back, and not because he was cold. Bucky looked to his right, and sure enough, there was a man staring at him peculiarly. Bucky stared back, confused, and mildly panicked. He didn't have another 'situation', did he? (God, if that small incident wasn't something he wished he could forget!) Or did this man recognise him? Of course, he could just be staring at the smelly, badly-dressed young man next to him and silently judging, but the more they stared at each other and the faster Bucky's heart pounded, all he could see in the man's face was recognition.

Shit. No. No no no, not again, not another Brock – this guy probably couldn't live up to his threats in the same way, but Bucky didn't want to take the chance. Even if all he did was phone the police, there was no way he wanted to be separated from Clint and taken back to D.C. They needed to leave, now.

Giving the still staring man a tight smile, he grabbed a paper towel and all but fled from the bathroom, the rough material pressed over the lower half of his face. He kept it there as he made his way back to Clint, eyes darting over every person around him. Nobody else appeared to have seen him, all too interested in their own lives and those of their friends to notice a guy with a paper towel slink between the tables. Hell, not even Clint, who was busy clicking something on the computer screen. "We need to go," Bucky said, lowering his makeshift face-mask a little.

"Okay," Clint said, then looked up and did a small double take. "Is your nose okay?"

"What?" he snapped, wishing the questions could wait until they were outside and away from people who were recognising him.

Slightly mollified, Clint gestured up at him. "The paper towel. I thought maybe –"

"My nose is fine," he grunted, throwing away the towel and ignoring how his nose throbbed at the lie. "Can we just go, please?" That man could be right behind him.

Wearing a concerned expression Clint stood up, collecting his bag as Bucky made for the café door. "What happened in the bathroom?"

"Nothing."

"Really?"

"Really." The air outside was warm. He missed the cold of the water.

"Then what's got you so wound up?" Clint asked, appearing next to him. "You weren't like this before you went in." Bucky wiped a hand down his face. "Was there an earwig on your toilet paper?"

He gave Clint an incredulous look, but the blonde only shrugged and claimed it happened to him once, and Bucky could only laugh. The panic abated, but rather than make Clint worry about being chased again (or possibly dying) Bucky told him: "I got part of a memory back."

To his surprise, Clint's eyes lit up and he grinned. "You did? That's great! Uh – was it? Great?"

Bucky shrugged. "It wasn't bad. Just a conversation, or part of one, with somebody. We talked about the Grand Canyon."

"And you don't know who it was?"

Bucky shook his head. "I think it was a guy, but…"

"Well, it's better than nothing, right?" Clint said after a moment. "Come on, let's look for a car park or something."

"You're not planning on hot wiring another crappy car again, are you?" Bucky asked. He wasn't sure his nose would appreciate bogus suspension.

Clint lifted a shoulder briefly. "We can try and look for a lift if you'd rather. I just thought that maybe after last time –"

"Wasn't your fault."

"I thought you might prefer it if it was just us two. I mean, if you're sure about sticking with me at all."

Deciding to lighten the mood a bit, Bucky slung an arm over Clint's shoulders. "Oh, I'm sure. You owe me for saving your life – I gotta make sure you don't forget that." Clint laughed, and Bucky tried not to notice how the action felt under his arm, how it sounded so close to his ear, or how it all made him want to laugh in response.

* * *

"My turn," Clint said, thumb out over the road, eyes on the kerb he was balanced on even though Bucky had asked him not to do that after he nearly fell into oncoming traffic. "Dark, milk, or white chocolate?"

"I don't remember. Look where you're going." Clint wobbled, and Bucky tamped down on the urge to keep a hand on him. "Have you ever been in hospital?"

"Oh yeah. I've made friends with a few doctors and nurses."

"Sounds like you're a frequent visitor."

"Was that a question?"

"No, but that was."

Clint raised his head to scowl at him, but Bucky just smirked. "So, I might be a little accident-prone."

"No shit."

"Hey! The motel was the first time anyone has actively tried to kill me!"

"So you're saying someone has passively tried to kill you?"

"That is not what I'm saying and that was your question."

He laughed, feeling lighter than he had done in a while. Before Clint, he'd spent weeks on his own, barely knowing where he was and why and with the instinct to run, to go further. Part of him was still waiting for the illusion to come crashing down.

"Do you have any fears?"

Bucky hesitated. He had a few fears, but admitting to them would probably lead to more probing questions – the kind of questions that could end what he currently had. "I… I don't think I like heights much."

"Well, you know, that's pretty common," Clint said easily, finally ending his balancing act. "And better to have an idea than for us to go somewhere particularly high and find out when it's too late."

"Like the Grand Canyon."

Sharing a look, they both burst out laughing. It did sound ridiculous, but when Clint asked if Bucky wanted to change his mind about going, Bucky found himself saying he was fine with it still.

"I mean, maybe that's why I want to go," he mused aloud. "To see if I can conquer my fear or something."

"It's as good a reason as any," Clint said, holding his thumb out again. "I have no problem with heights, so if you need a hand out there…"

Bucky smiled at him. "Thanks, Clint." He had to wonder why the idea of being somewhere high made his stomach twist a little, and why that thought hadn't occurred to him before now. It was another uncomfortable reminder that he still had a lot of personal details to recover.

"Hey," Clint said suddenly, "this guy's stopping!"

A rusted red pick-up truck was slowing to a halt on their side of the road, and all at once Bucky was anxious. He shared a look with Clint, who seemed to be squashing down similar misgivings, and in silent agreement they approached the truck together. When the passenger side door opened Bucky's heartbeat kicked up a notch, and even though he managed to get it somewhat calmer as a man climbed out, it went up again when he saw the guy's face.

"Hi there!" he said, a friendly grin stretching his too-shiny, slightly warped skin. Gesturing with a hand he added, "Sorry about my face – I was on fire. Kinda like Ghost Rider, but only as fun for about five seconds." Bucky had no idea what that meant. "I'm Wade."

Speaking for both of them, Bucky said, "I'm Bucky, he's Clint, and we're looking to get to Arizona."

"Or as close as we can," Clint said.

Wade nodded, still grinning strangely. "Arizona, nice. Grand Canyon? Eh, don't look so shocked – what else is there to do down there?"

Clint shrugged. "Phoenix isn't too bad, I hear."

"Canadian. Wouldn't know. But that's another story – literally – so let's talk business."

At that, Bucky and Clint shared a worried glance. "Uh, business?" Bucky asked.

"Yup."

"Right… Look, we can't exactly pay very much –"

"Whoa whoa whoa, you think I'm asking for money?"

Bucky blinked. "You're not?"

"Absolutely not!" Wade cried, looking alarmingly upset by the idea. "What kind of demented person would I be if I demanded you guys pay me for a portion of your grand journey of discovery?"

"Grand journey of what?" Clint echoed.

"That's what you guys are doing isn't it?"

"Not really – well, maybe, but… not really?"

"Great. Now, the only snag is, I'm not supposed to go to Arizona. Apologies for that. But on the bright side, I can take you as far as southern Colorado, so you'll almost be in Arizona! Just not quite."

"Not quite is fine," Clint said quickly, and Bucky warily nodded in agreement.

"Excellent!" Wade chirped, clapping his hands together. "Hop in then, Bonnie and Clyde, and we'll be Colorado bound before you can say 'excelsior'."

"It's Bucky and Clint," Bucky said as they followed him back to his truck.

"I know, but they sound similar."

"No they don't…"

"Bucky Bonnie, Clint Clyde, tomato tom-ah-to," Wade said, climbing back into the cabin. "Someone'll get it."

"Like who?"

"Never mind." And with that, he closed the door.

Perplexed, Bucky turned to Clint, whose expression mirrored his own. He wondered if Clint was also thinking of Sinthea's crazy ramblings, and how this Wade guy wasn't sounding too dissimilar.

"You want me to sit next to the slightly crazy guy?" Clint offered.

Bucky smiled tentatively. "If you're sure it's okay…"

"Nah, it's fine. I've fought off one crazy person already, second one should be a cinch."

"Here's hoping it won't come to that," he chuckled, and Clint opened the passenger door. He came face to face with a Dalmatian.

"Hey, spotty dog!"

"Oh, yeah," Wade said from the far side of the cabin. "You guys might have to ride in the back."

Looking in as Clint began cooing over the dog, Bucky noticed a distinct lack of seats besides the ones already occupied. "You don't mean the flatbed?"

Sounding mildly apologetic, Wade said, "Afraid I do, Buckeroo. Nate and Domino jump out otherwise and have adventures without me."

"You have two dogs?" Clint asked before Bucky could say anything.

"Yeah!" Wade patted a big grey lump next to him, and the lump raised its head. "This is grumpy Nate, and that's Domino."

"Do we really have to go in the flatbed?" Bucky said, talking around Clint as he leaned in to stroke Nate (though the dog looked thoroughly unimpressed by the attention).

"It sounds bad, I know, but I'll drive much more carefully than I usually do, and we can go down some scenic routes if you want; I just don't want to lose my friends."

"Dude, of course," Clint said to Bucky's surprise. "We'd feel shitty if we were the reason they ran off. You gotta look out for them, right?"

Wade practically beamed. "I like you." Clint was in the flatbed before Bucky could blink. "Hey!" he said before Bucky could follow his friend, and winked. "You can thank me later."

"For what?"

"For getting the ball rolling between you two. Think of this as an intervention!" Bucky just stared at him. "Get the boy before I do!" And with that, Wade leant over his dogs and pulled the door shut. From behind it, Bucky was sure he heard him say, "That we weren't going to break the fourth wall in this story, I know, but what was I supposed to do?" and officially decided that he and Clint were likely doomed.

* * *

The hard wood of the flatbed was made slightly more bearable by a couple of thick blankets that happened to be lying in a corner, though Bucky was still convinced that five minutes was all it had taken for his tailbone to be permanently damaged. "What if a cop car goes past?" he thought aloud, pulling the scratchy material up to his shoulders.

"We hide," Clint replied, as casual as if they were planning a surprise party in a coffee shop. "Look as inhuman as possible under a few blankets, police won't bat an eyelid. I mean, they probably have more exciting things to do than poke at a few blankets. There's that missing prince, right? They're probably looking for him."

"Sure," Bucky muttered, wriggling again. "If they haven't found him by now though, why bother?"

"Because it's the Prince," Clint said, frowning. "Come on, you were all for the Royal Family when Sinthea started talking shit about them." He cleared his throat. "And, y'know, people shouldn't give up hope."

"Hope?"

He nodded. "If they can't hope for the Prince to come back safely, they can hope for closure at least."

Bucky was speechless, something uncomfortable and familiar clogging up his throat. At what point, he wondered, had his life jumped onto the path that ended up here? And why? Conflicted, he asked, "You don't think your family's thinking that then?"

Clint sighed heavily through his nose. "No. If my family's thinking anything, it'll be what they're going to do to me when I get back." Letting slip a chuckle, he added, "Not that I'm going back, but they're too self-occupied to realise that."

"Good to know I don't have to push you to do the right thing, then."

He leaned closer, bumping Bucky with his shoulder. "What about you?" he said. "Any idea what your family's thinking?"

"None," he said, shaking his head. "The more I think about it, the… the harder it is, y'know?"

"Thoughts going round in circles?"

"Something like that."

The scenery drifted past them, a flat expanse of grass and sky and the one long road rolling out and away. As little as there was to see, Bucky couldn't stop staring; it was all so level, so unending, as though you should be able to see something – anything – in the distance, like a city skyline or even a lone farm. But the horizon was shapeless, just a line of blue and beige-and-green. As far as he was aware, this was the first time he'd ever seen anything like this, and he was stunned. Why was the land so empty? Why couldn't something be built on it, like housing, or a hospital, or a school? Did America truly need this much farmland, if that's what it was? It was mesmerising.

Beside him, Clint laughs softly. "I've got this friend," he said, "who I'm pretty sure would go mad out here. He'd see too much space and try and fill it all with something. He likes inventing shit, you see, so out here? Where there's nothing and no-one? No way he'd be able to leave it as it is."

For the sake of conversation (and to get out of his own head), Bucky asked, "What would he do?"

Looking around, Clint shrugged a shoulder. "Build a farm? But like, a super-advanced technology farm. No humans needed. Just the one guy, making sure everything is doing what it's supposed to and that the animals aren't dying by themselves, or whatever. Knowing him, he'd probably get bored far too quickly and call the whole thing done with, make a t-shirt to say he'd got it, and come back for the next project."

"A city guy, huh?"

"Oh yeah," Clint drawled. "He's got places in all the important spots: New York, D.C., Malibu I think, somewhere abroad… His father earned a lot of money doing the same thing."

Bucky raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? How did someone like that pick you out for his friend?"

"He wanted to sleep with me."

"He what?"

Clint cackled. "Your face!" Bucky gave him a shove, and he calmed down. "Nah, it wasn't like that. He did sort of see me as a… pet project, if you like. Told me I was living in the past. Fixed me up with these though," he said, and tapped a hearing aid. "Didn't even ask for payment, though I offered it."

"In what form?" Bucky said, grinning, and was pleased when Clint took it as the jibe it was.

"Cash," he insisted. "God, Buck, get your mind out the gutter."

"It followed you right in there, Francis."

Tipping his head back against the cabin with a smile, Clint groaned. "Ugh, please don't call me that."

"Why not?" Bucky laughed. "It's your surname, isn't it?"

He blinked. "Yeah, uh – sorry. Don't like it much."

"Oh. My bad, then."

"For the record," Clint said after a few beats, "I've never offered sex as payment to anyone other than sexual partners. And even then, never seriously."

Amused, Bucky said, "Good to know," and tried very hard to not ask the follow-up question: "So how many times was that?"

"Oh, come on!" Clint cried. "Seriously?"

"Well, we could be on the road for hours yet. Shouldn't we be getting used to weird conversations?"

"Isn't there a difference between weird and private?"

Understanding that he might be crossing a line, Bucky relented. "I guess so. Um… Sorry. You don't have to say if you don't want," he mumbled, and tucked himself further under the blanket. Maybe, if he willed it hard enough, he could slip underneath it and never emerge again. A small voice asked him if that was what he really wanted, and he couldn't think of a response.

"I've been in three serious relationships." Bucky's head turned back. "Well – two and a half?" Clint waved a hand. "We'll call it three." He ticked them off on his fingers, explaining each one as he did so; "Bobbi was first. We had what you'd probably call a 'whirlwind' romance – sure we were in love after two days, incredible sex, astounding fights, but we were one heck of a team, y'know? Course I had to go and blow it by proposing after… I don't even know, but it was too soon, and something of a wake-up call. She still gives me life advice when she thinks I need it. After her there was Jessica. Different to Bobbi, but still deadly serious. Blew that relationship too, but I'll spare you the gory details. She's alive, I mean," he added quickly, "and still kicking my ass when she thinks I – yeah. We're good. Ish." He cleared his throat, finishing off with, "And more recently, I was in a no-strings-attached thing with this guy called Pietro. Such a little shit, but I kinda liked the sass. And the sex? Sweet Jesus. I don't know where his home country is, or what they did to him there, but he could – uh." Clearing his throat, he mumbled something about that being it and rubbed the back of his neck while Bucky hid a smile.

 _"You know how cute you are when you smile like that?"_

 _"Shut up, Buck."_

 _"Hiding it just makes you cuter."_

 _"Will you cut that out? There are cameras –"_

 _"Relax, I'll go make out with Nat in five minutes and they'll forget I was ever talking to you."_

 _"They're not gonna forget that you talking to me is making me blush."_

 _"Then if anyone asks, I made a disparaging comment about one of the journalists. Picture one of them naked."_

 _"Bucky! You can't – why would you – oh my god, I hate you."_

 _"Well, who'd've thought: you're cute when you're angry with me, too."_

"What about you? Any idea if you got lucky in the past?"

Blinking back to the present, Bucky realised Clint was expecting a reciprocation – he shared his intimate details, now it was Bucky's turn. If he could, of course. What was he supposed to say, though? 'A mysterious guy and maybe or maybe not someone called Nat'? Great. Admitting to possibly adultery. Yet, perhaps he was wrong – maybe the conversational snippets coming back to him weren't discussions with a lover, but with a close friend. Teasing. In which case, 'Nat' was a girlfriend (probably).

"Nothing?"

"Um…" Moving his arms free of the blanket, Bucky mimicked Clint and counted off one finger. "There was a girl, I think. Nat something. I – I don't actually remember her, but I talked about her. About making out with her. So, I guess it happened?"

A beat passed before Clint beamed. "You remembered something again! Hey," he said when Bucky pulled a face, "any memory is better than no memory. Isn't it?"

"Yeah," he sighed, but Clint gave his arm a shove.

"Come on, say it."

"Any memory is better than no memory."

"Well we definitely know there's nothing wrong with your short-term bank."

Bucky snorted. The sun chose that moment to fully emerge from behind a cloud, and the sudden blossoming of heat was a pleasant surprise. Warming quickly, he pushed the blanket to his waist and tipped his head back, closing his eyes to enjoy the temperature. Both of them were quiet for a while, gradually taking off coats and then jumpers, and despite the chill from the air whipping past them, Bucky relished the feelings on his bare skin. He hadn't realised just how cold it could be up in the north. He was mentally debating whether or not to fall asleep when a question from Clint had him opening one eye.

"Can I ask about this?"

He was pointing at Bucky's left arm. Covered with a metallic tattoo from his shoulder to his wrist and styled to look like the limb was constructed of interlocking metal plates, it was almost as much a mystery to him as it was to his friend, and raising an eyebrow, he said as much. "You realise you probably already know my answer?"

Shrugging, Clint didn't quite hide his disappointment. "No harm in asking," he said. "Thought maybe it would be more significant or something."

It was – but the significance was what was missing. Bucky rubbed the back of his wrist where the silver faded out to his natural flesh tone. "I know that it's a secret. The tattoo, I mean. That's why it fades out here, I think, so I could hide it more easily. Wouldn't show up under a shirt sleeve by accident."

"So you were acting out?" Clint said with a sly grin, and Bucky chuckled. Clint poked a spot high on his bicep, inquiring about the hint of a design he could see there, and Bucky lifted his t-shirt sleeve to reveal the red star. When asked about it, he raised and dropped his hands in his lap, and Clint nodded in understanding. "Maybe that'll come to you, too," was all he said as Bucky covered it again.

He snorted. "How, when I'm supposed to remember so fucking much?" Hearing how bitter he sounded, he apologised on a sigh, dropping his head back against the truck cabin once more.

"Take your time," Clint said. "What'll come will come."

Giving him a sidelong glance, Bucky said, "Did you just change the words of that saying? Que sera, sera?"

The lightbulb so clearly came on in Clint's head that Bucky burst out laughing.

Over the next few hours, their conversation rose and fell, ranging from Clint talking about archery to Bucky calling out shapes he could see in the clouds. Wade insisted on feeding them at nearly every gas station they stopped at, babbling about how he couldn't let them die, or that he didn't want to be forgotten about, or reduced to a 'plot device'. From what he seemed to be saying, he had no particular job, but took odd ones when he felt like it – though what these jobs consisted of, he avoided saying. He mentioned the fire once or twice, and Bucky was sure he heard the word 'cancer' at one point, but all in all, it was hard to imagine how someone like Wade lived. His strangeness made Bucky uneasy, but the guy seemed to genuinely like them both (especially when Clint made a fuss over the dogs). If it meant they kept being fed and got to their destination in one piece, Bucky supposed he could make an effort to be more optimistic about Wade's intentions.

"I just couldn't imagine life without him," he was saying, rubbing Nate's head affectionately. "No, wait, that's a lie. I've seen my life without him. It's still fun, but not as good."

"I'd love a dog," Clint said, scratching Domino under her chin.

"Rescue one," Wade suggested. "Call him Lucky. Feed him pizza. Don't give him to the girl."

"What?"

"Time to go!"

As night drew in, and the temperature cooled again, Bucky and Clint enjoyed companionable silence under the stars. Bucky had vague memories of star gazing as a boy, other bodies lying with him on a patch of grass somewhere, the sky a watercolour of deep blue splashed with pink and turquoise clouds, covered with stars the way a toppled pot of glitter cascades over the misfortunate surface it rested on. It was too cloudy for a repeat of such an image now, but he held on to the memory, imagining what could have been the reason for it in the first place. He was soon distracted when Clint shifted under the blanket, and his head lolled onto Bucky's shoulder. At first, Bucky froze – but a minute later, when Clint made a sound somewhere between a pig and a goat that had him clapping his hands over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, he settled into the position, leaning into Clint slightly and letting himself relax. With the two of them so close under the blanket, the cold air lost its bite, and as he stared out into the dark expanse of land, Bucky ended up drifting to sleep with his own head resting on Clint's.

* * *

 _"The first weekend of July? Uh – shit, no, I can't. Natasha's opening performance is that weekend, so Steve and I'll be in New York for the week."_

 _"Oh. Right."_

 _"I could do the week after?"_

 _"No, that won't work. That's when we leave for Japan."_

 _"Oh."_

 _"… Does this mean this is the last time I'm gonna see you?"_

 _"Over summer, maybe. You don't have to make it sound like we'll never see each other again."_

 _"Kinda feels like it."_

 _"Come on. Don't be like that."_

 _"Sorry. It's just…"_

 _"What?"_

 _"Sometimes it feels like you really are dating her."_

 _"… I know… I know. I'm sorry."_

* * *

Sleep wasn't easy, and when he woke up Bucky felt considerably unrested. The last vestiges of a memory were slipping away from his mind, and all he could see was a star-laden sky and three boys beside him; no context, no details. It was frustrating, and did nothing to help his sleep-deprived mood. He wanted to get off Wade's stupid truck. He wanted food that hadn't been squashed together in under five minutes. He wanted to be warm, he wanted to be comfortable, and he wanted to stop moving for a few days at least. Most of all, he wanted the rest of his memories back.

At least he wasn't alone.

"I love pizza, okay?" Clint said once Wade started the truck up again; he was referring to their breakfast. "Pizza's great. If I had a dog, I'd feed it pizza. Can't go wrong with it. But you know what?" He sighed, gazing forlornly at his food. "I really want some fresh mac 'n cheese right now."

"Pancakes," Bucky said, smiling softly. "I'd kill for some pancakes."

"That settles it then."

"Settles what?"

With a determined air, Clint said, "When we finally get off this goddamned truck, we're finding the nearest diner, and I don't care if we have to beg – we're getting pancakes, and we're getting mac 'n cheese, and we're gonna savour every fucking bite. Yeah?"

With a tired laugh, Bucky said "Yeah," his foul mood slipping away. Rolling with the change, he quickly leaned forward and ate the end of Clint's pizza slice, almost choking on it at the look of outrage on his friend's face.

Yeah. Without Clint, he'd be lost to the world.

(In the truck cabin, Wade declared his intervention a success.)


End file.
